


should we bring it right back

by arzoensis



Category: Critical Role (Web Series) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 04:43:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arzoensis/pseuds/arzoensis
Summary: It takes a little while, but Sam gets on his mark eventually.





	should we bring it right back

**Author's Note:**

> Oh no, here I am. Nevertheless,
> 
> Title from Khalid's "Right Back."

It starts like this:

When they first meet each other, Liam’s head is shaved and Sam’s desperately trying to figure out if there’s something in his teeth while the room fills with people at a rapid pace.

Sam inclines his head in Liam’s direction, feels deeply uncool while he does it. He shields his mouth with one hand, tries to prod his tongue into the crevice between every tooth.

“Turn this way?” Liam offers without even introducing himself, and Sam almost jumps. He weighs his options. Look like an idiot in front of this guy, or look like a fool in front of everyone. One burned bridge is better than hundreds, he decides. He turns and bares his teeth.

“It’s right there,” Liam says. He points covertly at his own mouth, and Sam mirrors the movement. “Yeah, there. You almost got it.”

Sam ducks down into the relative cover of the table, digs out the piece of whatever that’s been trapped in his gumline before popping back up.

“Thanks,” Sam says with a sigh of relief. “I swear I’ve been picking at it since I got here. I almost wasn’t pretty enough for the table.”

Liam regards him with a cool look. Sam almost thinks, _great, another asshole I have to spend an hour with_—

“I think you’re bringing the average up, spinach or no,” Liam says, his face creasing when he smiles, and Sam must know then. Just like that.

They met before that, vaguely. Sam realizes he recognizes Liam after the fact. Nothing more than passing handshakes and a “That’s Liam” or “Sam’s over there” before their paths uncrossed again. They were in the same rooms and the same games and the same dubbed episodes, but not the same circle—though voice acting is a small enough niche that their circles could barely be considered a Venn diagram.

At the bar with the rest of the panel, Sam saves Liam’s number to his phone under _liam o. and the yeah yeah yeahs_ because it makes him snort. Liam scrubs his hand across his head like he’s self-conscious, tells Sam that it’s for this play he’s doing—it’s nothing, really, just a small thing. Sam, fueled by viciously sweet cocktails and shots and Liam in close proximity, immediately launches into a tale about his own stage life. Liam leans in closer, and it’s like puzzle pieces fitting together.

“I skipped fifth grade,” Sam says, gesturing wildly with his hands. “I think my mom told the principal that my school records disappeared in a mysterious fire.”

Liam laughs, leans his cheek against his hand. Their knees are knocking together. “Look at you, a child star born from the ashes.”

They walk back to the hotel, their group waxing and waning around them, the two of them falling in step so easy that someone Sam can’t remember jokes about them being newlyweds.

In a couple of hours they’ll go back to their respective homes, Liam across the country, and they might not see each other again. It makes Sam want to do something spontaneous. He won’t, but he wants to, and he’s almost drunk enough to do it. He watches the way Liam’s face dimples when he smiles instead, the two of them glowing beneath the streetlights.

Sam has Liam’s number saved through two phone upgrades, scrolling past _liam o. an…_ every time he tries to find someone else. Sometimes he hovers over it, like he’s going to call. He doesn’t know what he’d say, plays their possible conversations in his head. _How’s the weather?_ seems so trivial, _how’s work?_ a one way street to a dead end. He doesn’t call.

And in a whirlwind of movement, so quick he almost loses his breath, Sam moves to LA. He dials Liam’s number with boxes still scattered across the floor. The first reason for this is that he doesn’t know anyone else. The second reason is that he remembers the way Liam looked at him at that panel and afterwards at the bar and even after that on the walk to the hotel, and he isn’t sure what it meant, but he wants to know. Sam’s never been the type to leave a stone unturned.

On the first ring, he realizes that he’s had Liam’s number for—years, actual _years_, and he’s probably already changed his number—

“Sam,” Liam says, his voice crackling across the line. Even through the static Sam can hear the surprised and fond way he says his name.

“So I’m moving to LA,” Sam starts, and away they go.

At that damp apartment—barely a step above student housing, with all the flaws and none of the discount—Liam shows up with a metal pan covered in foil, hair a little longer but that glow still in his eyes, and Sam’s stomach flips.

After several years of friendship, a couple episodes of a podcast, and the start of one roleplaying game (that expands to consume if not his every waking hour, then at least most of his Thursday nights and his time lost in thought while stuck in LA traffic), Sam understands this:

Liam’s a tactile person with everyone. Reaching across the table to touch Travis’ shoulder, pressing his forehead to Laura’s, tucking his head into Taliesin’s chest. It shouldn’t be any different with Sam. It’s friend stuff. You know. With this group, everyone’s snuggled a little too close.

Even so, it doesn’t take Sam too long to figure out the way Liam operates. He touches intimately, proprietarily. It’s partially the way that Liam shows his love and affection to the people he surrounds himself with day in and day out. The other part is where the faint smirk comes in. He’s not as opaque as he thinks he is, and Sam reads him loud and clear. He just wants to see how far he can go before someone calls him out on it.

Liam wraps one arm around Sam’s shoulders and kisses him on the forehead. Liam shoves his palm into Sam’s face, fingers tracing along his features while he’s talking to Brian. Liam runs one hand along Sam’s back as he passes him on stage. Liam leans his head against Sam’s shoulder and dozes off. Liam kisses him during the All Work No Play marathon, and after a live show that went horribly well, and one time at Laura and Travis’ housewarming party.

Sam, a person who has spent his entire life looking for the exact person to egg him on, is absolutely not going to back down from it.

Sam kisses back, because this is his gimmick. This is why they work so well. It’s pushing at buttons and pulling at pigtails and _yes and_ing each other until the heat death of the universe—or, at the very least, until someone is dumbfounded enough that the other can claim the heavyweight belt.

At the party, Liam kisses him and Sam kisses back, curling his fingers into the nape of Liam’s neck. His hair is fascinatingly long now—a perfect swoop on his forehead, a little extra length at the back—and when they break apart on Liam’s slight inhale of surprise (that Sam absolutely will not tuck into his memory to wrack his dreams), Sam licks one disgusting stripe up Liam’s cheek. It’s hot under his tongue, the rasp of stubble like sandpaper.

Sam makes a big show of wiping his tongue off with his hands, while Liam wanders away howling with laughter, his drink sloshing over his fingers. With his back turned, Sam runs his tongue over his teeth and swallows.

The tide begins to shift like this:

Liam has some kind of insane power that makes him perky and energetic after a cross-country flight, a deeply unsettling bounce in his step as they walk across the airport. He’s talking about everything they could get up to while in the city, all the haunts they used to peruse, and for god’s sake, a _real_ slice of New York pizza.

Sam supposes he could be in a better mood. He’s starving but in that defeated way where you might as well not be hungry. They were technically served a meal on the plane, but it’s not like it was _good_—barely a step above Lunchables, and he won’t even let his kids have those. He picked at the fruit mostly, despite the general paleness and texture. Liam, for his part, slowly absconded with Sam’s untouched plastic dishes of salad and bread roll and some sort of meat in gravy (big question mark on that one). Liam would probably eat leather if it looked tantalizing enough, so Sam’s not too shocked by the turn of events.

He finally succumbed to a mind-numbingly overpriced Cinnabon because if he’s going to ruin his tastebuds on this trip he might as well go out with a bang. At least Laura got one with him. They touch their plastic forks together with grim acceptance.

The group splits up into a couple of cabs on the way to the hotel, bickering and packing in with all their luggage in tow. Somehow Laura’s in the passenger seat (there’s no somehow to this, it’s _Laura_, and if she asked they’d let her prop her feet on their backs) with Sam and Liam and Travis squished in the back.

“Just like our honeymoon,” Liam says wistfully, one gentle hand on Sam’s knee, and Laura snorts.

“If this cab hits a speed bump I’m tucking and rolling,” Travis says, his arm bent at an uncomfortable angle where it’s jammed up against Sam’s.

“_We’re just about ass to ankles back here, Maeby_,” Liam recites.

“_Do you wanna hop on your cousin’s lap, please?_” Laura finishes, and Liam winks at her when she turns to look over her shoulder.

The cab slams to a stop, and the driver curses at the car in front of them. Travis takes a deep breath, and Sam curls his hand over Liam’s.

“If you die, do _I_ have to do the Shakespearean ad breaks on Twitch?” Sam whispers.

“I’d love to see you try,” Liam murmurs back.

“Oh, shit,” Liam says, absolutely delighted. Sam peeks over his shoulder to see what’s stopping him at the threshold.

“This was supposed to be a double,” Sam says.

“We’re gonna spoon so hard, baby,” Liam says, dropping his backpack on the single queen that’s dominating the room.

Sam lines up their suitcases next to each other, out of the way so no one will trip on it in five, four, three—

“Matt and I are gonna go find some food if you wanna j—oh my god,” Marisha says, barreling her way into the room and stopping dead in her tracks just past the the threshold.

“Married life is so hard,” Sam says, turning to look at her with the saddest puppy dog eyes he can manage. “They’re forcing us to _sleep_ together, Marisha.”

“That’s a shame,” Matt says, popping into the doorway.

“It’s a tragedy,” Marisha agrees. “Are you two gonna fight over who gets to be big spoon? We can’t lose our wizard and goblin for the live show.”

“You’ll be glad to hear Liam’s graciously offered to be big spoon,” Sam says, and Liam flourishes his hand in a little bow. “No fights in this marriage. Not when he’s looking at this stunning face.”

“Technically, he wouldn’t be looking at your face,” Matt replies. Sam frowns. “We’re gonna get pizza, wanna come?”

Sam glances at Liam, who shrugs. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, the phone receiver pressed to his ear.

“We’ll tag along,” Sam decides. “Give us five minutes?”

“No rush,” Matt replies. “You’re the first room we came for—we’re gonna go ask Laura and Travis too.”

“And we have to wrangle Taliesin, if he hasn’t disappeared already,” Marisha says, following Matt out of the room. “Come find us when you’re ready.”

Sam drops onto the bed, bumps their shoulders together. Liam grins, murmurs something into the phone.

“The hotel’s booked up so there’s no hope of switching to a double,” he says, setting the receiver back in its place. “But the concierge says they can send up a cot so we don’t have to share.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Sam says. He leans his head against Liam’s shoulder. “You said we’re gonna spoon, and if we don’t I’m gonna feel cheated. _And_ I told Marisha, so now she’s gonna expect pictures.”

“We’ve been in worse situations,” Liam agrees. “Remember San Diego? My sleeve was drenched.”

“That was _once_,” Sam protests. “And you fucking loved it.”

“It was hot, yeah.” Liam stands, pulls Sam up by his hands before he gathers up his phone and wallet and sticks them into his pockets. “We should do that again.”

“You have a thing for bodily fluids, I swear,” Sam replies, rolling his eyes. “I feel like we should talk about it before our third date.”

“We’ll have plenty of time tonight,” Liam says, voice low as he ushers Sam through the door, and Sam resolutely ignores his tone. He’s not going to take the bait. Probably.

The pizza is fantastic—within walking distance of the hotel too, which is just icing on the cake. They find Taliesin in the lobby (though he looks like he’s sneaking out rather than waiting for them) and head out, a merry little band talking excitedly about all the touristy things they’ll do, knowing full well there’s just not enough hours in the day.

At the restaurant, a place with a single table that can hold them all, they split a horrifying number of pies and way too many pitchers. Laura and Brian spend most of the meal trying to wheedle people into going to the bars with them, but after the last slice is polished off even Travis demands to enjoy his food coma in peace. They trudge back to the hotel, much slower than when they made their way out, but with approximately the same amount of contentment.

Sam lets Liam take the shower first, because he’s something of a gentleman. Mostly it’s so that he can flop directly into the bed and take a power nap.

“Your turn,” Liam calls, scrubbing at his hair with a towel. “The water pressure’s pretty great.”

He’s standing in the doorway to the bathroom, towel around his neck and his sleep shirt in hand like he’s a centerfold in _Dad Bod Quarterly_. Sam absolutely does not stare, but he does swat him on the ass when they pass each other. It’s the little things.

One fantastic shower and careful dental regimen later, Sam flops into bed, tucks his head into Liam’s shirt and takes a big whiff. “So _you’re_ what I smelled. So musky.”

“I’m a living Wyrmwood,” Liam says, smug.

“Very nice,” Sam replies. He takes another sniff, just to be weird about it. “Don’t mind me, I’m enjoying this.”

He dicks around on his phone for a while, mostly checks what was happening on Twitter while the flight consumed part of his day. Liam’s reading, to a degree—mostly he seems like he’s about to pass out while flipping pages.

“I’m turning off the light before you drop that on your face,” Sam says, and Liam hums in response, sets his book down on the nightstand. The lamp turns off with a click, and the room is bathed in darkness.

Sam lies back down, his shoulder brushing against Liam’s. He’s beginning to realize that it’s not a very big bed, which could be a minor concern. He stares at the ceiling. Liam heaves a contented sigh, folds his hands neatly on his chest.

“I feel like I’m a kid at a sleepover,” Sam whispers, and Liam snorts.

“Should we talk about our crushes?” he asks, fake valley girl accent on full display.

“You _know_ who I have a crush on, stop playing games.”

Liam laughs, his arm brushing against Sam’s side with his breaths. “Do you want me to build a pillow wall?”

“We’re adults, I think I can survive sleeping with you,” Sam grumbles. “I’m just not a back sleeper.”

“Turn over then,” Liam says.

“Romance really never dies,” Sam deadpans. Liam smacks him gently, and Sam turns with a huff.

Liam tucks himself against Sam’s back, their knees lining up neatly beneath the covers. It should be strange how easily he does it—maybe it should be stranger that Sam immediately feels comfortable with their bodies pressed together.

“Okay? Too warm?” he murmurs.

“Fine,” Sam replies. “Pretty good, actually.”

“Kick me if I snore,” Liam says. “Goodnight, husband.”

Liam falls asleep like a stone dropped in a pond, sinking under the surface without much care for anything else. It’s impressive, really. His hand is thrown over Sam’s stomach, the palm lifted slightly from how the pads of his fingers are lying against the shirt’s fabric. Sam touches it, and when Liam doesn’t stir, he curls his hand over and rubs his thumb over Liam’s knuckles.

Sam’s lost in thought for a minute—given the circumstances, it seems fair enough—and doesn’t quite realize what he’s doing until there’s something hard under his fingers. It’s a wide ring, the one that Liam wears on his right hand. When he twists it the metal catches slightly against skin before it turns.

Sam knows many things about Liam with the same certainty of understanding breathing. How he likes to treat himself after exhausting days, what his goals were in high school, when he decided voice acting was it. He doesn’t know much about this.

He’s asked before, he thinks. He’s pretty sure. But sometimes the things he thinks about asking are just the things he thinks to himself when Liam isn’t there—_have you_s and _would you ever_s and _what if_s that don’t quite come out. He imagines that the question must’ve been asked because he remembers the way Liam looks: the way he always looks, the heavy set of his brow and twinkling eyes underneath and mouth tilted with a slight grin.

“Family heirloom,” he said. He waves his hand as if to dispel the thought of it being tragic. “It looks nice on me, don’t you think?”

Or maybe Sam was dreaming.

The ring comes off easily enough. Sam holds it between his thumb and index fingers, tilts it in front of his face. He can just see the shape of it, even with the curtains drawn to keep out New York’s light pollution. In the darkness he can imagine what it might look like.

Liam stirs behind him, and Sam freezes. Liam’s lips move against the back of his neck, hand crawling up to scratch against Sam’s sternum.

“I thought you were tired,” Liam mumbles.

“Show nerves,” Sam says, which isn’t technically false.

“Talk about it,” Liam says. He huffs, warm gust of air across the back of Sam’s neck.

“How about you?”

“Thought I felt you moving around, I guess,” Liam replies with a yawn. The rush of air sends a flutter up Sam’s neck. “You okay?”

“Just thinking,” The metal band is unyielding under Sam’s fingers.

Liam hums. The vibration of it rumbles against Sam’s back. “Never a good sign. I guess I can look forward to your next D&D Beyond ad.”

“You’re gonna be very impressed.”

“Don’t stay up too late,” Liam murmurs, and he nuzzles a little closer before sleep takes him under.

Sam lies in the dark, the minutes passing slowly. When he’s sure Liam isn’t awake, he finds his hand and slides the ring back on.

He’s never had an easy time sleeping in hotels, and he’s certain that the whole… situation would keep him up long into the night. But the next thing he knows, Liam’s stirring next to him, their bodies a tangle of warmth. They’ve shifted in the night, and Sam rubs a hand along the plane of Liam’s back.

Still half-asleep, he reaches for his phone and points the camera in what he hopes is their direction. He sends the picture—blurry, but clear enough to show Liam tucked serenely into Sam’s chest—to Marisha, and is immediately exhausted by the effort. It’s still too early to even think about getting out of bed, and Sam’s not going to entertain the idea when Liam’s right there. He presses back into the bubble of warmth by Liam’s side.

Between it all, Sam thinks about what to do, his mind racing, and knows there’s only one thing he _can_ do. He wars with himself on it, barely listens to Taliesin and Joe while they desperately scrounge up a plan to interrupt the spell. He’s tied his own hand behind his back. If he lets go, they have a chance. With one Counterspell, this is where it turns.

Vecna doesn’t teleport. The battle continues, and eventually they’ll win—and they’ll lose, too. But first, Sam says he’s sorry to Liam, and the edges of his vision blur.

_I love you,_ Liam mouths—so innocuous, nothing he hasn’t said before—and that of all things is what makes Sam break.

The realization comes to him in waves, but it crashes into him like this:

Between their increasing commitments to their careers and familial responsibilities, scraping together enough spare time to spend with each other was nearly becoming impossible. Sure, they were in the same room every Thursday for three or four hours, but that wasn’t _quite_ the same. Sam remembers when Critical Role was barely a home game—the two of them would find pockets of time, ostensibly to record the podcast but mostly to have an excuse to hang out. They packed into Sam’s tiny in-house recording studio, bottle of wine depleting at speed where it sits dangerously next to Liam’s foot.

Now it feels like they’re constantly running on borrowed time. Which is not to say that Sam takes this particular turn of his life for granted. Just—damn it, he wants to laugh at dumb jokes with his best friend without everything else looming over their shoulders.

It takes a little while for both of them to put their foot down. Technically, Sam cracks first—but in true Liam-and-Sam fashion, the only reason why Liam didn’t send the text earlier is because he was in a session.

_We’re going to this,_ Liam texts, attaching a link and an address. _Whiskey tasting in Palmdale on Tuesday. Thoughts?_

_I think we’d be late for Talks_, Sam replies.

_Fuck Brian._

_I think I’d marry him._

_Not what I wanted to hear before our date_, Liam responds. He attaches an emoji shedding a single tear. Sam snorts and stuffs his phone into his pocket.

He dresses up a little for the whiskey tasting. It’s a date, and that’s what you do for dates, even if Liam tactfully slaps _man_ at the beginning of it for the plausible deniability.

They’re both late because LA traffic is a grim war of attrition, but their moods are instantly lightened by the prospect of A. each other, and B. a truly expansive whiskey menu.

It’s a wondrous thing, how easily they talk about everything and nothing and still manage to say what they needed to say. Sam leans his warm face against his hand, elbow propped up on the table, and just basks in it.

“Good day today?” Liam asks, tracing a finger over the rim of his drained glass.

“Even better now,” Sam says, and he bats his eyelashes at Liam.

Sam isn’t quite drunk, but that’s kind of like saying he’s only a little on fire. His own tongue surprises him with the mere fact that it’s in his mouth, so that bodes very well for this episode of Talks Machina.

It goes off without a hitch, mostly. Maybe a bit more flirting than usual, but that’s par for the course, really. Sam somehow does not reveal secrets about Nott’s characterization, and Liam seems fascinated enough by Henry and the Webby trophies to give vague but thoughtful answers.

Someone asks a question about Nott and the way that she seems more comfortable in Xhorhas. Sam’s very pleased that people have picked up on the way her presentation has changed with her environment—Xhorhas, like Nott, is different. Difference is strange and off-putting everywhere else, but not there. Creatures gather under its endless night, and there’s a chance to feel normal. It’s something like peace, or maybe freedom, even for her.

Sam hopes he says something that makes sense. Liam’s listening to him intently, his head almost lolling against the edge of the couch. “It’s interesting, 'cause it’s exactly the same for Caleb.”

Sam is very warm under his collar. Liam’s very close, and has he always looked like that? This mixture of warmth and happiness and so, so much love just lying open on his face. How anyone survives daily life with Liam looking at them like _that_ is near unbelievable, beyond comprehension. Though in fairness, Sam has never seen it pointed at anyone else. Maybe they just never noticed.

Anyone else. Sam blinks himself back to reality, and Liam’s still looking at him like that. And he—

“Doesn’t need to hide, he’s wearing nice clothes,” Liam’s saying, “is not worried about people seeing him here.”

“Maybe we _are_ in love,” Sam says, and he knows he isn’t talking about Nott and Caleb. His own voice sounds distant to his ears, and he swallows.

—never noticed.

Liam just smiles at him, a fond glitter in his eyes. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and beneath the heavy set of his brow is the inky brown that Sam spends perhaps too much time staring into.

“Maybe,” Liam says, a thoughtful drawl tinging his words. “Maybe.”

When the cameras turn off, Sam tugs on Liam’s sleeve as he’s about to talk to Brian. His attention is immediately diverted, and Sam’s sober-ish enough that it pings a caveman part of his brain, the one that demands attention and purrs when it’s received.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Sam asks.

“Sure, babe,” Liam says, and they stand together before walking just off the set, his hand resting on the small of Sam’s back.

“Okay, so. Weird question,” Sam starts.

“Sounds about right,” Liam replies, smiling.

“Are you—is Caleb in love with Nott? Like, or. Is that you.”

Liam looks briefly confused. “Are you asking if _I’m_ in love with Nott, the character you made for Dungeons and Dragons?”

“Of course you’re in love with Nott, she’s a fantastic character,” Sam says, waving his hand dismissively in the air. “I mean, are you—have you ever had feelings for me?” Christ, what is he, a middle schooler?

“You know, I was expecting a… slightly more soul-searching question than that,” Liam says slowly.

“Indulge me here, okay,” Sam says. Why is he so nervous? His palms are sweating. “I know it’s a weird question. But not—that’s not Caleb talking, right? All of this. Am I overthinking this?”

“Of course _I_ love you. Me, Liam.” Liam points at himself and cocks his head. “But you knew that. Right?”

Sam opens his mouth. He stares at Liam. Liam stares back.

“Well,” Sam says slowly.

There’s a very long pause.

“Oh my god,” Liam says. He leans a shoulder against the wall, like the sheer force of Sam’s knowledge or lack thereof has knocked him off his feet. Dramatics as always—once a theater major, and so on.

“How was I supposed to know?” Sam asks, throwing his hands up. “I thought you were like this with everyone!”

“I told you that it was impossible for me to hide my extremely un-platonic love for you,” Liam says, amazed.

“It was for the podcast!” Sam yells, distraught. “Public consumption! It could mean anything!”

Brian peeks his head in. “Everything o—”

“Lovers’ quarrel,” Sam hisses.

“Got it,” Brian says, nodding as his face slips back through the panels of the set. “Understood, have a good day.”

“Maybe you’re not the moron,” Liam says, wondrously. “Maybe I’m the moron because I’ve been in love with you for years and you thought we were just… guys being friends, I guess?”

“I’ve had many erotically charged friendships with guys,” Sam says, sniffing.

“What, did your _a capella_ friends insist you’ve sixty-nined?”

“How would you know if they did or not,” Sam mumbles.

Liam sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “We shared a bed at conventions. _Multiple_ conventions,” he says, with the grim resignation of a man who’s excavating every moment of their not-so-casual relationship, finding the skeleton and spilling it onto the earth. _Alas, poor Yorick_, and Sam’s getting buried under the pile of dirt. “You jumped into bed with me and talked about how nice I smelled.”

“In my defense, you smelled really good. It was disarming.”

“I asked if you wanted to call up one of those cots,” Liam says, and he might be doing deep breathing exercises between sentences, “so that we wouldn’t have to share. And you said you needed big, strong arms to keep you safe.”

“Everyone likes being little spoon,” Sam says weakly. “And even Ashley’s pointed out how nice your arms are.”

“She was talking about my hands,” Liam says, and Sam is a little disappointed to see that said hands are tucked away thanks to his crossed arms. Sam remembers when Liam rolled that strength saving throw and clenched his hands in the air, miming the pull of his arms against jagged rock and water. He’d blanked on what Matt said next, had to elbow Laura and get her to tell him what happened.

“What did you think was happening here though?” Sam asks, his brain fast-forwarding through every moment of their relationship. It might as well be whirring.

Liam shrugs. “We’re married, and not to each other. I just assumed you hadn’t brought it up yet.”

“With who? My wife? And you have?” Sam leaves the _and you thought I kept you on the hook for a decade?_ out, but he’s pretty sure it’s implied.

“She’s known since you moved here, I’m pretty sure.”

“_What_,” Sam shrieks, at a decibel perhaps only registered by bats.

“It’s not like I hide you from her, and she’s perceptive. I think she knew before I did,” Liam says, like this is a perfectly normal thing to talk about in their friendship. What Sam thought of as the tectonic plates that tremored so slightly beneath it all, Liam’s fully transfigured into a crashing of forces. Valleys and mountains forming in his head while Sam just held his breath and waited for the shaking to pass.

“I think,” Sam says carefully, “that I need to sit down.”

“Let’s go find a spot,” Liam says gently, and Sam takes hold of Liam’s hand when he offers it.

Sam lets his body get moved through the studio, following in Liam’s wake. It’s almost muscle memory that makes him understand the world around him: the sets and clutter and _Strongjaw Ale_ barrels they pass by. When Liam stops it’s at the little table where they film All Work No Play, the top still cluttered with books and mics. Liam sits across from him, and Sam can almost believe they’re just going to record a fun little bit. _I’m Liam O’Brien—fuck, I’m Sam O’Brien…_

“So,” Liam says, and Sam can’t help it when he starts laughing.

“This is absolutely insane,” Sam wheezes, wiping at his eyes.

“On a couple different levels,” Liam agrees.

“Did you really just.” Sam can barely bring himself to say it. “Like, all this time? You never even thought to bring it up?”

“I didn’t think there was a reason to bring it up,” Liam says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What we have is important. I think that’s enough.”

“Well, I’ve dug it up now.” Sam clears his throat. “What should we do about this?”

“I think I’ve been leading this dance for a while, and it hasn’t exactly gotten us anywhere,” Liam says, a wry turn to his mouth. “So maybe I should pass it to you.”

“Yeah, you’re not a very good dancer.” Sam isn’t either, but it’s all about the confidence. And improvising. “I’m just as lost. I mean, you’ve had the map this whole time.”

Liam leans back in the chair. “We could… I mean, we could go back to what we were doing. It worked. It can keep working.”

“You know who you’re talking to,” Sam says, motioning to himself. “When have I ever backed away from anything?”

Liam shrugs. He’s smiling, just a faint little play of it on his lips. “I wasn’t expecting you to.”

“This is something though, right?” Sam asks, motioning between the two of them. “And we need to figure it out.”

“Eventually, yeah.”

“Now,” Sam decides, firmly. “Double or nothing.”

“Did you say that because we’ve got doubloons on the table?”

“Yes. Shut up.”

Liam laughs and Sam knows this is important. Liam here, and Sam next to him, their lives so carefully intertwined that to pull one thread would be to unravel the whole thing. Sam loves him, and Liam has loved him this whole time—but more importantly, Liam loves him back. And that’s enough.

Sam puts his hands on the table, palms flat against the surface. He thinks he knows what he wants to say, but he wants to say it right—no, fuck it. Overthinking got him in this mess, where his best friend’s been looking at him the same way for a decade, and he’s just been glancing away.

It’s time to take the bait.

He doesn’t think at all. He knows what he’ll say. When he starts talking, Liam’s eyes soften, and he reaches out to take Sam’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi](https://arzoensis.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
